


The Break

by consultingfangirl (lifeaftercheckmate)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Fluff, Giggling, Hallucinations, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, Slashy, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Trust, hand holding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-10 14:38:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeaftercheckmate/pseuds/consultingfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a break down and John is there to hold him together. What he receives in return is more than he could ever have hoped for. Set in season three somewhere in an ideal world without Mary.</p><p>psychotic!Sherlock (in the diagnostic sense, not the figurative sense)<br/>tender!Sherlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

There was a blinding flash followed by a thundering sound that shook the ground. John lost his balance, but didn't fall. In the distance, he saw a dark-haired figure with his arms spread wide, head thrown back to the stars. John cursed under his breath as he saw a ball of light streaking toward the man. He broke into a run and had just enough time to register the smile on his face before tackling him to the ground. There was a shower of fire and debris were they had just been standing. Sherlock was angry. He pushed John off of him, yelling something that John couldn't make out. Another crash jolted John out of his sleep. He sat up in bed. He could hear Sherlock downstairs screaming at god knows what. He groaned.

John made his way to the living room and drew in a sharp breath as he surveyed the destruction before him. Every flat surface had been cleared of its contents which were now scattered over the floor. Plates lay broken in the kitchen, and it appeared that one of the dinning room chairs had been thrown across the room. There was a hole in the wall, presumably from Sherlock's fist which was swollen and bleeding slightly from a cut on the knuckles. Sherlock was standing on the far side of the room with his hands over his ears, shouting obscenities. His body was taught like he was in pain. There was no sign of the gun, and for that John was grateful.

“Sherlock!” Sherlock grabbed the vase in front of him, spun and hurled it at John. John ducked and the vase shattered on the wall behind him. Sherlock's eyes widened as he realized who was standing in front of him and what he'd done. He slid down against the wall and pressed his hands back over his ears, sobbing. John crossed the room noisily so that he wouldn't startled Sherlock again. He sat down in front of him and said his name softly this time.

“Sherlock, you're alright now.” He rubbed his hand in small circles on Sherlock's back, glad he didn't flinch at the touch. At least he hadn't retreated completely into his mind. “It's okay. I'm here. You're safe. You're alright,” John murmured into Sherlock's ear. He could smell the alcohol. It was the last thing Sherlock needed during an episode and was likely the primary reason he'd spun out of control. After a while, Sherlock lowered his hands and spoke.

“It's like being in a stadium filled with people. Everyone is shouting and grabbing at me and pulling me all different directions at once. They're like wolves the way they rip at me. When they get loud, they drown out any reason or rational I cling to... It's terrifying not being able to think straight.”

“What do they say?”

“Some say die. Some say kill. I'm not certain which is worse.”

The exhaustion on his face stole John's breath and suddenly he was angry. No, not angry, furious. A deep rage bubbled up inside of him so strong that it brought tears to his eyes. He pulled Sherlock toward him so his head was in his lap and put his arm protectively around his chest. His eyes flashed and he almost snarled as if daring Sherlock's demons to appear now that he was here. One hand played with Sherlock's hair. Sherlock didn't resist. In fact, he nestled a little closer and sighed. The hardest part of being Sherlock’s friend was knowing there was nothing to be done for him. John had killed for him and he'd do it again. If his tormentors were flesh and blood, John would have destroyed them. But he had no power over hallucinations and fear. He just felt so bloody helpless. Unconsciously, he tightened his arm around Sherlock and dropped a kiss on his head. He breathed deep. The scent of those dark curls was intoxicating.

“Interesting,” Sherlock murmured under his breath. John hummed some slow, nondescript tune and Sherlock closed his eyes and felt himself begin to still. He stroked the back of John's hand with his thumb. Though slight, the hitch in John's breath was loud to Sherlock's ears.

“You're wrong,” he said.

“I usually am.” Exasperation flickered over Sherlock's face. John sighed. “What am I wrong about?”

“You do help.”

“I wish I could do more.”

“You do plenty. John I – ” Sherlock cleared his throat. Feelings were inconvenient messy things. He didn't know if it was the liquor or John's fingers in his hair that loosened his tongue. Maybe both. “I, uh, I know I don't really...make my appreciation known – ”

“You never make your appreciation known.” Sherlock glared.

“Do you want to hear this or not?” John was silent. Sherlock cleared his throat again. “You keep me grounded.” John was caught off guard. Reason wanted to brush it off as drunk rambling, but something stronger wanted it to be true. It was too much to ask for. A moment too late, he realized Sherlock was watching him.

“John?” John shifted and avoided Sherlock's searching gaze. Sherlock raised himself on one arm and brought John's face down to meet his. John stopped breathing as he looked into Sherlock's eyes. He was transfixed, helpless to move of his own volition. Mercifully, it was Sherlock who made the move. He pushed his lips to John's face, kissing first the corner of his eye, then his cheek, then his lips. All the breath rushed out of John's lungs. He'd never thought Sherlock capable of tenderness, especially not toward him. When Sherlock pulled back, his eyes swept over John, calculating. Face and neck flushed, eyes dark, pupils dilated, shallow respiration, racing heart...yet, his body was rigid and his jaw was set defiantly.

“No, Sherlock – damnit.” He hated the words even as they left his mouth. “Don't. You're drunk.” Sherlock trailed his thumb down the side of John's cheek and felt him shudder.

“I'm fully aware of what I'm doing. I've thought about it quite a bit during decidedly sober periods. Now kiss me,” he said. And then, in a whisper, “Please.” John took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Alright then.” He leaned down and pressed their lips together, tentatively at first, then more confidently as he felt Sherlock twine their fingers together. He felt delirious with the taste of him – scotch, chocolate, and something spicy. He urged Sherlock's lips open, pushing doubt and logic away so he could savour Sherlock's mouth, his tongue – oh God! He broke the kiss and breathed the other man's name against his lips and kissed him on the forehead. Sherlock kissed the side of his mouth and let his head drop back down to John's lap.

“Sherlock,” John said. “I have no bloody clue what I'm doing.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. John, always the practical one. Slowly, Sherlock kissed each finger tip on the hand he was holding, then the back, then the palm. He was quiet and his eyes were unfocused. When he spoke, he was more musing to himself than conversing.

“I don't have a lot of experience actually liking people, but...I hear that in these cases, understanding is quite irrelevant.” John chuckled. Sherlock was right as always. Sherlock's body began to relax. He was losing the battle to keep his eyes open. His breathing slowed and for a few minutes, John watched his chest rise and fall in silence. He marvelled how it could be so quiet and serene here on the floor in the middle of the chaos of the room. He nudged Sherlock.

“Let's get you to bed.” He disentangled himself and made to get up. Sherlock's eyes flew open and he grabbed John's arm.

“Don't leave me.” It shook John to see Sherlock frightened – Sherlock who never begged for anything in his life, who seemed to have no weakness, Sherlock who could decide not to care like flipping a switch. John took his hand and helped him up.

“You'll sleep with me tonight.” Sherlock nodded and followed John to his room.


	2. Chapter Two

John woke up with Sherlock laying awkwardly half across him. His head was on his chest and their legs were tangled together. At some point during the night, Sherlock had taken off his shirt and John had his arms wrapped around his bare waist. John couldn't resist the urge to trace the muscles in his back, across his shoulder, and down his arm. Sherlock made a little noise and shifted in his sleep. John smiled. He'd never seen Sherlock so quiet.

He replayed the events of the night before. He wondered how much Sherlock would remember...and how much he would regret. After being so close to him now, if Sherlock decided that opening himself to John was a mistake, it would rip him apart. He pushed the thoughts aside. For now, Sherlock was asleep and John was just going to enjoy him here in his arms. He certainly wasn't going to disturb him now. He'd wake up eventually and they'd deal with it then. John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and, listening to his even breathing, fell back to sleep.

Sherlock set the mug of tea on John's end table and shook him with his free hand, careful not to spill the second mug with coffee in it. John made a groggy, resentful noise and opened his eyes. Sherlock thrust the coffee into his hands.

“Black,” he said. “No sugar.” John blinked at him.

“Um, okay. Thank you.” Of all the things he was expecting, this was not one of them. Sherlock looked uncertain. John took a cautious sip of his coffee. It was terrible, but he wasn't going to tell Sherlock that. “You didn't slip anything into it?”

“Not this time. It's just coffee.”

“That's reassuring.” John sat up and drank his coffee while Sherlock drank his tea and watched him. It was very uncomfortable. “What, Sherlock?” 

“This is good right?”

“What?”

“The coffee. I brought you coffee.” John was confused. Sherlock huffed impatiently. “It's supposed to be endearing. I read it online.” John burst out laughing.

“You what?” Sherlock looked haughty. John was still chuckling. He put the god-awful coffee on the end table. “Okay, let's talk about this.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow and remained silent. “Last night – how much do you remember?” Sherlock sniffed.

“All of it, of course.”

“And how are you feeling about it this morning?” Sherlock's face softened a bit.

“I said nothing that I did not mean. Everything I did was sincere. You should know by now that if nothing, I am authentic to a fault, unless I'm trying to extract information from someone and then, obviously, the ends justify the means, but clearly that is not what I – ” John smirked and placed his finger over Sherlock's lips. Sherlock frowned, unused to being cut off. John leaned forward and kissed him lightly, tentatively testing the waters. Sherlock breathed deep and kissed him back, setting the tea precariously on the end table and grabbing John's shoulders with his free hands. His mouth trailed down the side of John's neck and he nipped just above his collar bone. He pushed John back onto the bed, but John flipped him onto his back, straddling him with both Sherlock's wrists held in one hand.

“No, Sherlock. Not here. Out there, you are in control, you call the shots, I am at your beck and call, and that's fine. Not here. You need to learn that sometimes it's okay to let go.” Sherlock's right eye twitched a bit and his jaw was set defiantly, but he remained quiet and did not resist. John smiled. He let go of Sherlock's wrists and placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's head. He leaned down and kissed him hard. Sherlock moaned into his mouth. John nipped his bottom lip and Sherlock hissed and pressed his hips up into John's. John chuckled.

“It looks like I've found the great Sherlock Holmes's one weakness.” Sherlock sighed and his eyes fluttered shut.


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn't missiles this time. Someone was holding John under in the river by his throat. They let him up long enough to scream. The water on his face turned to blood. He could taste it as it dripped into his mouth. He was thrust back under the water until his lungs started to burn and then up again to gasp for air. He heard the roar of a train right behind him and then he was under again. This time he wouldn't be let up. He tried to fight his body's impulse to breath in as the the water he was submersed in turned thick and warm.

 

“John! John!” Sherlock's voice sent a jolt through John's body. The burn was becoming intolerable and panic was setting in. “Sherlock!” he thought. “Sherlock, find the train! Help me!”

 

The hands around his neck shook him like a rag doll. He clawed at them, trying desperately to break free.

 

“John!”

 

If only he could get to Sherlock's voice, he'd be safe. Then he saw him. Sherlock was laying on the bank of the river, throat slashed. The blood was dripping in to the water; it *was* the water. John was drowning in Sherlock's blood! The grip tightened until John felt his neck snap and then a slap across his face.

 

“John! Wake up! Please wake up!” John opened his eyes and sat straight up in bed gasping for air. His face stung and Sherlock was bleeding from a scratch on his face. Sherlock pulled him to his chest. John sank into him and tried to catch his breath. Sherlock held him too tight, but John let him. Slowly the sound of the train and taste of iron faded away. John took a deep breath.

 

“I need some water.”

 

“I'm coming with you.” John headed downstairs and Sherlock followed him. “Sit. I'll get it.”

 

Sherlock braced himself on the kitchen counter and tried to settle himself. His heart hadn't raced like this since the roof of St. Bart's. He took a few deep, slow breaths. He didn't know what to do. John was the strong one, not him. He tried to think of what John would do. He always kept a hand on him, holding him, rubbing his back, any kind of contact to keep Sherlock grounded. He spoke softly and let him ramble on. Mostly it was his presence that Sherlock needed. He dabbed his face with a napkin and brought John his glass of ice water.

 

John lifted his head off the back of the couch to look at him.

 

“Did I do that?” he asked, motioning to the scratch on Sherlock.

 

“Yeah. It might be time for a clip.” Sherlock smiled and handed John the glass. He downed it in one long swig. Sherlock stretched out on the couch and pulled John back against him. John twined their legs together and rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

 

“Sorry about that.”

 

“I already got you back.”

 

“How's that?”

 

“I backhanded you.”

 

“You backhanded me?”

 

“Across the face.” John touch his cheek. It was still sore.

 

“Why on Earth would you do that?”

 

“You weren't breathing. You screamed and you were thrashing about, but you weren't breathing. You're lips were turning blue, but I couldn't get you to wake up.” John didn't respond. “What happened?”

 

“I was drowning. I could hear you calling me. There were hands around my neck holding me underwater. I was looking for you and I saw you laying dead on the bank of the river. Your throat was cut open and blood was dripping into the water, then the whole river turned to blood. I felt you hit me. That's what woke me up.”

 

“Yeah, sorry about that.” John shrugged.

 

“I'm sorry I broke down.”

 

“Well I did destroy our apartment and I threw a rather heavy glass vase at your head, so I think you're all right. I do like the new plates you picked out, by the way. Very classy.” John chuckled.

 

“New plates. Listen to us; we sound positively domestic.” Sherlock snorted.

 

“Domestic? Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, domestic? Well maybe a bit, but I'm not telling if you're not.”

 

“The secret's safe with me.” John turned and gave Sherlock a slow, tender kiss that made Sherlock's head spin.

 

“What was that for?”

 

“For being here. Thank you.” Sherlock kissed John on the forehead.

 

“Let's go back upstairs and you can show me how grateful you are.” John smirked and followed Sherlock up the steps.

 

Sherlock tugged John's shirt off as soon as they were in the door. John sank his fingers into Sherlock's hair and pulled back so his neck was exposed. He licked a line from his collar bone to his jaw and nipped his ear. Sherlock shuddered and ran his fingers along John's chest feeling every dip and curve, all the hardness of muscle. John pushed his bathrobe to the floor and pulled Sherlock's shirt off. Their lips met and they went from lazy enjoyment to fierce need. John pushed Sherlock up against the wall, dropped to his knees, and tugged his pants down. Sherlock was all ready half hard. John took a deep breath before taking him into his mouth. He loved his smell. Sherlock made a choking noise in his throat and pitched forward a bit before balancing himself with his hands on John's shoulders.

 

“Dear God, John.” John chuckled around him, causing Sherlock to gasp. He put his hands in John's hair and pulled his head back off of him. He stared hard into John's eyes. They were glinting evilly. John licked his lips and winked. Sherlock sighed and his head fell back against the wall. John went back to work, taking Sherlock all the way down his throat and then twirling his tongue around his cock on the way back up, speeding up just a bit. Sherlock didn't trust his knees to hold him up.

 

“Bed,” he whispered. The hoarse, gravely tone of his voice gave John chills. It thrilled him to know that he was the one that could break the great Sherlock Holmes. John tossed his pants on the floor and straddled his lover on the bed. He kissed Sherlock's temple, his jaw, his neck, collar bone. He shifted his hips back and forth so that his cock rubbed up against Sherlock's. Sherlock growled again and arched his back, pushing them closer together. His eyes flashed as he looked at John. John chuckled.

 

“You're so greedy.” He put his hand around both of their cocks and stroked lazily. Sherlock groaned. “What are you in the mood for tonight, hm?” John loved talking to Sherlock in bed, mostly because it thrilled him that Sherlock's mighty brain couldn't fight through the endorphins enough that he could respond coherently. “Do you want me to suck you off? Hm? Do you want to feel your dick touch the back of my throat? Do you want to feel my wet mouth around you as you cum and watch me swallow it?” Sherlock made a tortured little noise, but he couldn't form any words. “Do you want me to jack you off? Maybe you want me to take you in the arse again? You sure did like that the last time.” Sherlock whimpered, honest to God whimpered. John's head lulled back. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply. His hand faltered. Sherlock seized the opportunity. In a flash, John was on his back with his arms trapped over his head.

 

“Maybe I should take *you* in the arse this time,” he growled into John's ear. John fought to maintain his composure. His cock was throbbing so hard that it hurt, and he wanted nothing more than to beg Sherlock to take him right now. Instead he smirked and raised one eyebrow in challenge. Sherlock laughed deep in his chest.

 

“So be it.” Sherlock made great show of wetting his index finger, sucking and twirling his tongue suggestively. Then, he pushed it slowly and gently into John's tight arse. John gasped and his eyes went wide. Sherlock moved slowly, enjoyed the show. Being on top and having a semi-clear mind definitely had its advantages.

 

“Have you ever been fucked, John? Have you ever had someone inside you?” He drew his finger out, “or will I be the first?” He pushed it back in. John's eyes were wide and unblinking. He clutched the sheet underneath him and ground his teeth together.

 

Sherlock grabbed the lube off the floor next to the bed. He poured a good amount on his hand, and carefully worked his middle finger into John's arse. John stopped breathing. Sherlock lightly swatted his cheek.

 

“Now, now. No more of that.” He curved his fingers so they would brush John's prostate, and his whole body jerked.

 

“Sherlock!” he gasped. Sherlock bent so that his lips were right next to John's ear.

 

“You know what I think? I think you like to fuck yourself while you have a wank. How long have you wanted a man to fuck you, John? How often did you touch yourself and wish to have my dick inside of you?”

 

“Sherlock!”

 

“Yes?” John squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth.

 

“Please...”

 

“Please what?” John took a deep breath and looked Sherlock straight in the eyes.

 

“I want you to fuck me.” Sherlock grinned.

 

“I thought you'd never ask.” He lubed his cock began to push it into John's arse. His face contorted in pain.

 

“Just do it,” he gasped.

 

“Are you – ”

 

“Just do it!” Sherlock pushed all the way in. His muscles were rippling around him. Sherlock let his head drop to John's chest and fought to keep his breathing deep and even. John put his hands into Sherlock's hair and kissed the top of his head.

 

“OK,” he said. Sherlock began to move slowly, letting John adjust to the sensation. Usually John was controlled and Sherlock was at his mercy. As stoic as he was in his day-to-day life, Sherlock could not contain himself in bed with John. John completely undid him, as if taking him apart, piece by piece. And the way he looked at him, it was as if he'd never seen anything more beautiful – not even the last time they were together. John's eyes were in a constant state of wonder. Now they were closed tight. His lips were just barely parted. His face and chest were flushed and his breathing was ragged. His fingers were still in his hair. He was so open. John, his John, so strong, so put together – right now he was completely bare for him, of all people, for Sherlock Holmes.

 

Something twisted in Sherlock's chest.

 

“John,” he whispered. John groaned.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“John, John, John...” John's body was tensing and Sherlock was losing control.

 

“John!” He moved fast and John met his thrusts. He was pulling his hair so hard it hurt. He bit down on Sherlock's shoulder.

 

“Oh, God, John! Fuck! I'm coming!” John bit harder and Sherlock felt his cum spray across their stomachs a moment before he was coming too.

 

Neither one moved.

 

“Dear, God,” John said. “Bloody hell.” He giggled. Sherlock was quiet. John opened his eyes to peer at him. “Are you all right?” Sherlock kissed him tenderly on the cheek.

 

“Of course I am. How could I possibly not be?” John closed his eyes and sighed, satisfied. Sherlock pushed the blond hair away from John's face. He looked exactly the same, but as much as Sherlock had seen that face over the last five years, he couldn't tear his eyes away this time. Something had changed...and he could never go back.

 


End file.
